The Way They Flinch at my Touch
by Nollac
Summary: This story follows the life of Jim Plarity, a homicide detective at the LAPD, he's new to the force and is unsure about where his career will take him.
1. Chapter One: A New Force

The Way They Flinch at my Touch

Chapter One

This is my first L.A. Noire fanfiction, and the first fanfiction that I will really stick to as I enjoyed writing it so much. I'm a newbie to this so constructive criticism is welcome, don't forget to take a couple of minutes to review as it inspires me to continue writing! Thank you!

"That's it! Get lost, you freak!" yelled Wiston as he took another drink of whisky from the scratched tumbler in his worn hands. The woman he was referring to as a freak was around mid-20s and was wearing a hitched up violet skirt and flowery vest top, she was not the mutant that Wiston implied, in fact she was quite pretty, if you thought about it.

"Wiston, just calm down and have another drink." Charlie, the bartender said in his calming tone, taking the tumbler from Wiston swiftly. I sat on the battered old stool inside our favourite bar, Ripley's on 6th street and Sheerin. My name is Jim Plarity and I am a detective at LAPD. This is me and my partner, the aforementioned Wiston Trail's night off. After trying to catch a ride with the woman, if you get my meaning, Wiston isn't very happy. She tried to pull some fancy new move on him she had learnt in her experiences, and he wasn't having any of it.

Nothing much has happened down at the station recently, a few assault cases but nothing major. That's good for most of the force, as they get to relax and put their feet up for a while, but not for me. I love my job, and I love it because it involves being active, being inquisitive. I'm new to the department, you see, and I need to make my mark in the horde of detectives trying to impress the captain, James Donnelly. I work in the Homicide department, and not a single murder has taken place in Los Angeles for 3 weeks. And believe me, for L.A. that's a very, very rare occurrence. It seems that almost every day there is usually a new psychopath on a rampage in the mean streets of California. As the title of my department suggest, we often come across a lot of homicide cases and the culprit is usually some homeless buff who a woman has done wrong and now he's hell bent on killing every female he sees. I don't think anyone quite knows why it's the women that seem to be targeted, I guess it's because they don't put up much of a fight. If you tried to castrate a man, I'm sure you'd be on the floor with a broken jaw faster than you could say 'aberration'. There are some tough guys in Los Angeles, and a lot of them are in senseless gangs, who walk the streets, laying into anyone that gets in their path of violent destruction. I'll be honest, the LAPD aren't good with gangs, sure we have guns, but the enemy always seem to be able to get one up on the small number of cops that we can afford to send out to deal with them. They always, I repeat, always have the faster cars. We have no idea how they get them, the main theory is that they have them shipped from other parts of the state and then tweak all the mechanics in a garage somewhere up north, where we currently have two patrol teams set up to catch them with the finely tuned goods.

It's now 1:07am, Wednesday 11th April and I'm still sat with Wiston, watching him drown his imaginary sorrows in glass after glass of Ripley's finest whisky, brandy and any other form of alcohol he can get his hands on. I'm stone cold sober as I'm the designated driver, apparently. I've been sipping on water for about three hours and it's starting to taste like the end stall in the men's bathroom, which coincidentally is where Wiston and the 'freak' had their little interaction earlier in the evening. The only other people in the bar are a few regulars, sat on the same line of stools as us, chatting between themselves and then a possibly married couple in a booth in the back corner. I think they must own around five records in Ripley's because every time we enter the bar, the same songs play on repeat. Luckily, our favourite bartender Charlie is on hand for a chat and a cigarette, when he isn't being pestered by one of the regulars for another round of drinks, that is. Charlie is a good man, around mid-40s, with dark skin and large brown eyes. He is married to a lovely woman called Marie and they have a fourteen year old son called Liam whom I have never met personally, but we get plenty of tales of his son's antics from his father, so I feel like he's one of my closest friends.

As Wiston orders another round, a strange looking man walks into the bar; he looks young, about 25 years old I would say but with a mysterious look in his eyes. He is wearing a large brown coat and black work trousers with 'ER' printed on the front of each garment. He keeps a stern face and walks steadily into the bathroom at the back of the bar. This bar is old and you can hear the faucet running. After about a minute of this, the door opens again and the man begins to make his way out, and that's when I see the spot of blood on his collar.

Thank you very much for reading the whole thing if you did, I appreciate it. Hope you like the cliffhanger. If you can, please review it as it inspires me to write more and hopefully improve upon my work. I know this chapter is a little short but I needed to put this out there to see if anyone would like it. Thank you again.

- Nollac


	2. Chapter Two: Down

**The Way They Flinch at my Touch**

**Chapter Two**

**Welcome to Chapter Two of my L.A. Noire fanfiction story! I have so much fun writing these, but I can only write more if you can spare a minute to leave a quick review, so I know that you're enjoying them. But please leave something I can improve on as it helps me massively. Thank you and enjoy!**

I'm not quite sure how to explain this to you, to anyone who reads this in the near or distant future. Someone may never find this diary, but if you do, make sure someone finds out about it, hand it in to a police station, make sure they know what happened, and why it happened. Although, how can anyone know what and why? Even I don't know that.

I'm not sure I'll ever recover. I think this is something that will never quite leave you. It's not a feeling, it's a knowing. It's a certainty.

I was always a determined child; I knew I was destined for the police force from the age of seven, when my father, may god rest his soul, bought me and my brother Harry contrasting costumes. I was dressed in a small blue hat with a gold police badge on the front with trousers, a waistcoat and a shirt to match. My brother wore dark trousers and a casual t-shirt and made himself look as if he was robbing a shop, or hijacking a car. And then I would chase him around the house screaming at the stop of my lungs a load of nonsense that I thought I had heard correctly from the stories my father had told me. He was in the force himself, Captain Terry Plarity, head of the Arson department. He was always coming home, looking tired and weary, and telling us stories about his day. We would sit on his lap and listen intently as he told us about fleeing robbers, reckless fighters and deranged husbands. It was a miracle we weren't scared to death. My mother and father were always fighting, but they never failed to make up again, whether it was for our sake or their own didn't matter, as long as we were a family.

Those times are gone, with my father gone, my mother unable to even walk on her own and my brother god knows where, things will never be the same. My brother moved to San Francisco to become a 'banker' but we always knew that wasn't all he was doing, he hung out with some shady kids in his teenage years. He was a year younger than me and I always told him to be careful around the people that he admired, but I don't think he ever really listened to me. I don't know where he is now, and I don't care. He left my mother when she was alone and vulnerable, a few months after my father had died. My mother is the forgiving type. I'm not.

The man looked shifty, caught my eyes and scarpered out of the bar in a flash, I recognized him, I didn't know from where, but I knew those eyes. I ran after the mysterious man shouting "STOP, LAPD!" but to no avail. As he pushed his way through a large crowd of L.A. citizens, I heard a loud engine starting up from behind the bar, the man then turned into a small alcove behind a jazz club, the man then climbed skilfully and promptly up a pipe and onto the roof of a drug store, his large coat flailing behind him. As I followed, keeping pace, I saw a flash of red as Wiston slammed on the gas of our car, flying down the centre lane of a busy Sunset Ave. I was beginning to catch up, every second counting more than the last, when all of a sudden he disappeared. I prepared for some type of surprise attack, but nothing of the sort came. Had he fled around a corner? I must have taken my eye off of him for less than a second, and he's gone.

But then I stopped dead. I realized where he had gone. Down. Down into the alleyway beneath the rooftop on which I was teetering over the edge, determined to keep my balance and not end up dust on the sidewalk, but leaning so far over as to be able to see any sign of the crook. No noticeable evidence. About ten feet to the left of me was a ladder, I slid down it and rushed to the scene where he had fell. There, lying on the floor, motionless, was a tall man, with dark brown eyes and blonde swept hair, wearing a large brown coat and black work trousers with 'ER' printed on the front of each garment. There, lying on the floor was someone I knew very well, there, lying on the floor, before my very own eyes, was my brother, Harry Plarity.

I felt Wiston come up behind me, "Did you get him! Who is it?"" Wiston said, catching his breath after his 'long' five metre run, "Holy shit, Jim! Did you push him off the roof or something?"

"No, he, he jumped." I replied, calmly, expressionless. I stared at my brother's emotionless face and burst into uncontrollable tears. I knelt down in front of him and thought about our childhood, we were always best friends, always fighting, but it was playful. I never fully trusted Harry though; there was something about him that made me not trust him. He was always the mischievous type.

I stood up, Wiston staring at me wildly. That was when I noticed the other body. On the floor, face down, about fifteen feet in front of me, near where Harry had fell, or jumped, was another body. I ran to it and rolled the dead body over to inspect it. I took a step back; in front of me was a woman that used to be in her mid-40s, with adoring brown eyes and a beautifully shaped face. Lying in front of me was the deceased body of Charlie's wife, Marie Wilson.

**Me and my cliff-hangers, eh? Well there you have it, I hope you enjoyed it, please don't forget to leave a review as it helps me out SO much and inspires me to keep writing.**

**Thank you.**

**- Nollac**


	3. Epilogue: Break

If I was writing this at any other time, you'd think I was insane. But after the events of last night, I think it's appropriate. Two bodies, both of people I knew very well. One of a blood relation, which hasn't quite hit home yet. My brother, admittedly a bastard of a brother, but still my brother is dead. That's a lot to take in. I'm taking a break, not because I want to, but because I need to. I will proceed with my work and my journal when I return to duty sometime in the future, but for now, I need a break to work things out.  
I hope to speak to you again sometime soon,  
Jim Plarity,  
LAPD. 


End file.
